


Mir Atisha

by explodingnebulae



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Crestwood Scene, Crestwood, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Gratuitous Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-25 17:55:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30092931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/explodingnebulae/pseuds/explodingnebulae
Summary: What if Crestwood would have gone differently?
Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Solas (Dragon Age), Fen'Harel/Female Lavellan (Dragon Age), Fen'Harel/Lavellan (Dragon Age), Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age)
Kudos: 14





	Mir Atisha

**Author's Note:**

> I write what I want because I want to.

“There is one more thing, vhenan,” he admits with great reluctance. The pain in his eyes is palpable. There is a truth behind his steely gaze that rustles and wakes, like the wind before a storm in spring. “I cannot allow your love for me to go any further, not without you knowing the truth.” 

“It’s not often you frighten me, Solas.” A truth of her own. 

“Then forgive me, my love. I’m afraid my words will offer you no comfort.”

He unravels his tale, his truth, and she can only stare on and listen as they sit in the grass. Thoughts collide in the confines of her mind like quicksand. The more she tries to justify each, the more she struggles, the deeper she sinks. And then, clarity. The foci, the half-truths, his knowledge, and the reluctance to love her despite his feelings written on his face plain as day. She pieces everything together and echoes back his final words.

“You’re Fen’Harel,” she muses, equally aghast and amazed as the glaring truth finally creeps from behind self-imposed ignorance. Of course he was and of course she would fall in love with him. Her clan had warned her, the dangerous path of her explorations, searching and screaming into the Beyond for knowledge; he was bound to pick up her scent. “But why...?”

He steels himself to the familiar tone of betrayal, though it is foreign coming from such a lilting voice. It hurts worse when it comes from her. “You deserve to know who it is that you’re loving. As I said before, this can only end in disaster.”

She blinks, unsure of what her next move is to be. Thus far, she had plans, she had tactics, she had guards and guides and companions. She had the wisdom of Athara, the first to Keeper Deshanna, to rely on. But no amount of training or discipline could aid in the matter of her heart’s affairs. 

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” She’s not bitter or even angry. The hot tears that fall from her face are granted to some unnamable emotion, accentuated by the moon’s light of the Crestwood grotto. “Why didn’t you trust me?” 

“And what would you have had me say? That the orb we chase is that of Fen’Harel, of me? That I seek to tear the Veil down myself? That I am to sow the seeds of ruination upon this world? That I am the monster all Dalish children are warned of before carried to sleep?” His accusatory tone is pointing inward, as though chastising himself. He takes a breath, settles his nerves.

She sees him, then. The root of his pain, the burden of responsibility and ruin as it pushes his shoulders with impossible weight. Solas turns to the water, brow furrowing with frustration and defeat--wounded pride. 

“I will trouble you no further, Inquisitor,” he says plainly. His walls are reconstructing themselves and she knows her window to reach him is closing. “After defeating Corypheus, I will take my leave.”

“Solas,” she breathes, impossibly tender, and approaches him, her arms wrapping around his torso as she rests her now bare forehead against his spine. He tenses under her touch, a statue of flesh. “Stay with me.” 

She knows not from where the words come, but she feels them with conviction. Strengthening her resolve, she holds tighter to him.

“Are you not frightened, vhenan?” His affectionate phrase is cold to her ears, running down the blade like icy rain. He turns in her hold and brings a finger under her chin. She meets his gaze as he tilts her head up. “Does the Dread Wolf not strike fear into your heart?”

“No,” she returns and wraps her arms around his neck. She stands upon the tips of her toes to be as close to eye-level as possible. “Emma lath...”

Solas relents at last and places his lips upon hers. It’s clear to her that he’s struggling against himself as his hands find purchase at her hips. Her return is smooth, tender, accepting, as she moves along pliable lips. She knows she should fear him, that she should be damning his very existence. His plans to destroy the world should be rousing vehement rage in the marrow of her bones. 

But all she is capable of is forgiveness, acceptance, passion. 

He seeks entrance into her mouth, his prodding tongue eager to taste more and she relishes in the way it passes over her own. She pulls at the beige fabric of his tunic, the jawbone necklace swaying in conjunction to her movements at his chest. 

“Stay with me,” she repeats softly when they part. Both have heavy breaths coming at discordant intervals and the carefully crafted composure of the Inquisitor is nowhere in sight. With him, she feels far removed from the title. Solas often helps her forget what title she bears, undoes the fabrics of her armor and carefully constructed throne. He helps her hold to who she is, the base of her person, and she wonders if she does the same for him. 

He secures his hold of her and searches for something, anything suggesting apprehension, fear, but finds nothing. She is true to herself as always and he finds himself unable to tear himself from her when she returns to his kiss. 

“Ar lath ma, vhenan,” is all he can say; the words lost along her fervent lips. His hold of her ventures lower and finds purchase at the supple roundness of her bottom. A small moan catches in her throat and it proves a turning point for them both.

He sweeps her into his hold and she wraps her legs around his waist, holding to him as he carries them from the water and bones that scatter the landscape. There is a small spot untouched by the wyverns that used to dwell in the area; Solas makes the climb easily with her still in his arms, lips never leaving hers as they ascend.

He knows it’s wrong to want her, knows it’s wrong to feel his desire grown in the pit of his stomach, yet he cannot deny her as he pins her frame between the cool stone and his body.

Her soft sighs lose purchase in his kiss and she knows in that moment she will never love another. By no means of her stubborn will would she stay in the Dread Wolf’s grasp, but by the strings he’s woven into her heart. She plays a willing marionette as he coaxes small sounds when he grinds against her, his lips hot against the flesh of her neck. 

She once again feels the ground beneath her, this time with the Dread Wolf looming over her. Her ears flush from blade to pointed tip as she catches the heady haze that washes over his eyes. He’s above her, spreading her clothed legs to make a place for himself, and she gets lost in the sight of him. His features were always made sharper by the moonlight, and now is no exception. 

‘ _He’s beautiful_ ,’ she thinks. And it’s evident by the flush of his cheeks, the sharp line of his jaw as he tries to maintain control, the severe but desperate look in his eye, and the occasional shake of his exhale. 

“Now you know who I am, vhenan,” he says, a bitter note of remorse swimming in the undercurrent of his words. 

Mirani cups his cheek with her palm and feels his muscles relax under her touch. “And I love _you_ , Solas.”

He turns in her hold and places a slow kiss to her palm as though memorizing the lines that marked it. His tenderness comes from the deepest part of him, from a time before the Dread Wolf. He loves her as Solas; as the wise but too proud man foolishly stumbling through his interminable life despite every calculation made. 

“Mir atisha. Mir din,” he breathes and lowers his lips to hers before repeating, “My peace. My demise.”

Her hands skirt beneath his tunic in a silent request and he’s happy to oblige. Solas leans back on his knees to remove the clothing and she follows him. Her hands spread curiously over his torso, the only interruption the mandible, and she takes the opportunity to study him. 

His skin is as smooth as the rest of him and she can see the pepper of freckles upon his shoulders that match the ones dotting his cheeks. She shifts closer and plants a lingering kiss to the column of his throat. He tastes of salt and sweat and need as she suckles and bites her way to the base of his ear. 

A low grunt leaves him as her hands rake his flanks and her kisses travel lower and lower. She marvels at the intensity with which he regards her, eyes dark with arousal, and she nearly loses her breath when he pulls her up. He claims her lips in a demanding motion, no longer bothering with pretense. 

The dam bursts open and roaming hands take to finding the various snaps and fastenings with a new bloom of desperation. Feverish lips collide in a haphazard beat of shaking breaths and soft groans. The only company they have is the steady symphony of Crestwood’s wildlife and even that fades into the background. 

She’s perfectly naked and kneeling with him, the small halla head necklace resting above the swell of her breasts. She regards it for a moment then removes it for the first time since Athara put it around her neck in the Free Marches. 

“Vhenan, there’s no need to re--” 

She silences him as she brings the leather cord over his head. His dark gaze wavers between soft and stern as he tries to discern acceptance. Not wanting to give him the chance to refuse, she speaks. “No matter what happens in the years to come, var lath vir suledin.” 

“I was going to leave this for you when I took my leave of the Inquisition,” he confesses with a defeated breath of laughter. Solas grabs his own pendant and cord that rests against his skin and removes it. In a fluid motion she cannot deflect, he places it upon her. “But now, I don't think I could bear to part with you, my love.”

The jawbone which usually sits proudly upon his sternum reaches below her breasts, but she doesn’t have time to concern herself with such matters. He’s moving over her again and she sinks to the cool earth. 

They move together in perfect tandem. When he moves forward, she moves back; when his hand cups her breast, she arches into him. Solas takes to tasting her. Her neck, her collarbone, the peak of her nipples, the velvet flesh of her abdomen, is all for him. 

She gasps as he settles between her thighs. Not wasting a second of time, she clutches at the earth beneath her fingers as his tongue glides easily between her folds. He sucks and laps at her core and has her blithering in minutes, meaningless strands of sentences lost to the wind she cries into. 

She’s too close to coming undone and reaches for a hand that’s on her thigh. Solas laces their fingers together and pulls her heat squarely against him with a hungry growl that vibrates against her sex. 

The noise, she thinks, is her undoing as she writhes against his mouth, begging for more. Her mouth opens wider and wider and her eyes clamp shut as her pleasure reaches impossible heights. 

His name echoes through the grotto when he pushes her over the edge. Molten ecstasy floods through her as her muscles grow taut then shake around him. Mirani’s thighs hold him tightly to her as she finds sweet oblivion and he’s more than eager to catch her release.

Her legs loosen shakily around him as she finds her breath. Her nerves crackle with sheer bliss and she doesn’t hide the smile she wears when she pulls at his hand. When he rises to meet her face, Solas is stunned into silence. Words fail in his throat and his open mouth betrays him. 

Without the heavy mark of June’s vallaslin, he can truly take in her beauty. The vixen he has in the grass, who gasped and cried unabashedly into the night air, stole into the deepest recesses of his heart and made her home there. Her eyes are caught between a clear ocean and the emerald hue of the Anchor. They glow in the moonlight but do not distract him from the red of her swollen lips or the heavy rise and fall of her chest.

She slides a hand between their bodies and takes his girth in her grasp. It’s been years since she’s touched another but she’s more than certain Solas is much larger in comparison to the hunter with whom she had an affair. A half breath, half moan is lost against her temple. The sound rings clearly in her ear his crystalline intent in his cry. Solas rolls his hips and pushes his cock into her hand. 

A smirk appears as she guides him to her core and he squares himself as if to catch the very moment he enters her. She looks to him and he to her as he slides into the confines of her heat and both lose their composure. Solas curses in a deep voice, a long forgotten elven curse she could not place. The moan that falls from her when he thrusts deep inside her is lost to his kiss, muffled by his tongue gliding over hers.

A few experimental rolls of his hips and they find a rhythm. He makes love to her, going slow and deep to fill her with each thrust until he is all she can feel, all she cares to know. But her impatience eats at her, claws at a wall she is nearly through. 

She rocks her hips against his to quicken their pace, sending him to the hilt inside of her and the grunt that echoes against stone tells her he was holding himself back. Her smile returns and he responds with nearly soundless laughter hoarse with lust. 

“Holding out on me, Solas?” she quips, breathless, and moves on him again. 

Knowing a challenge when he sees one, Solas grabs her hips and adjusts their bodies. He slams into her, once, twice, infinitely as he claims her. Every thrust leaves her shaking, filled, babbling. She writhes under him, wanton, and her back arches into the air as her hips grind against his. Mirani is beyond the point of return when her orgasm finds her. Her walls clamp around his erection, hot and pulsing within her. His strokes are erratic, shorter, but deeper somehow.

“Vhenan...” His groan is lost against her kiss as he chases his release. 

Unable to recover from her last high, Mirani finds her overly sensitive nerves begging for more. A few more thrusts, a few more jerks of his hips, a few more kisses placed anywhere they can find purchase and Solas loses himself. 

She shakes as he empties his seed inside of her, her mute cries lost to his near feral grunt as their mouths share a space, both open, but neither touching.

He holds to her and remains inside of her until she stops shaking. In truth, the warm clutches of her walls have him half-hard again, but he pulls from her with a wet sound they both secretly delight in. 

The byproduct of their union spills from between her thighs, but she’s too satisfied to care. Solas turns ands sits with his back against the cool stone beside them. She can’t help but regard the Elvhen art above him. Despite the satisfying exhaustion that takes hold of her, Mirani joins him. Her legs wobble with uncertainty as she takes her seat. 

He puts an arm around her as she looks up at him. For the first time since their kiss in the Fade there’s a genuine smile on his lips. His eyes are closed and his face relaxed, but cheeks still pink from exertion. The sight takes her breath and she feels a stirring in the foundation of her being. It’s the same stir that pulls her to him time and again. 

“I love you, Solas,” she says tenderly as she eases against his form. A yawn escapes her as she cuddles in closer “I always will.”

“And I love you, vhenan,” he begins. “But we cannot sleep here. The hold or even a camp would be a wiser spot for rest.” 

She sighs but understands. Any manner of beast could crawl into the cave and they would be left to fight in the nude. Even worse, a search party could come looking for them and find them in the aftermath of bliss. The stories that could come of two elves fucking in a wyvern den would not reflect well on the Inquisition.

Then again, Solas’ identity is no small tale itself, and it is one she knows she must protect until the end, until Corypheus and his mock-archdemon lay dead before her. 

“Just a little longer. At least until I find my legs,” she entreats with a tired laugh. 

“If you find them lacking, I will carry you if I must. After all, I am the cause of your condition,” he returns smoothly, catching Mirani off-guard and inciting a trill of singsong laughter from her. 

“There’s something I would like to see.” 

“Perhaps you will.”


End file.
